


May I Have This Dance?

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first dance at a wedding should be a waltz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I Have This Dance?

The dancing was to begin in just a moment. England looked unsteadily into his champagne glass—that unsteadiness for once not due to the actual consumption of alcohol, but instead—

Well, instead due to nerves.

It was rather maddening, to be quite honest. Not the situation—no, no, not at all, not in the least, nor anyone . . . else, and for once, certainly not . . . well—but he himself. The two of them had already said their vows—clasped hands, rings and flowers and solemn words beneath a glory of stained glass (ceremony in York Minster, they had agreed, reception in the American embassy, so in that that way they had been married on land that was part of both of them). A simple exchange of words and a flurry of treaty signings, and yet all he could remember of it was America’s eyes, shining like blue sky behind his spectacles, a clear, endless blue that would go on forever and never be covered by clouds, above and alongside a sense of breathless, floating weightlessness, dizzy but not unpleasant, the sweet, thick knot somewhere between his own throat and his chest. And the smooth solidity of the simple ring now round his finger, warm from being clenched tightly, almost nervously, in America’s hand before he’d slid it onto England’s fourth finger—but yes, well, at any rate, he certainly shouldn’t be feeling nervy now, of all times. Surely the bit to be tense over had already come and gone. He was wed to America, joined, their futures bound up in one another and . . . and strangely enough, he felt no trepidation regarding that bit of it whatsoever.

The champagne tickled his nose with its bubbles as he took another swallow, and he scowled at it. It wasn’t—that, in the least. The enormity of it all still caused something to shake and shudder deep within him, made him tremble with it, but it was a trembling of something—something very like joy. No, it wasn’t that. He wasn’t certain whence his nervousness had come. He was simply finding it difficult to relax, and now his—his next swallow bunched up in a gulp—his husband had completely disappeared off somewhere, and the music for the dancing was about to start any moment now, and fucking hell, his palms were wet with cold sweat—

Yes, it was certainly nerves. Like a blushing bloody bride, he thought with some annoyance, and then wrinkled his nose at another nostril-full of champagne bubbles.

Someone tapped him lightly on his nose, and England startled, jumping a bit and barely managing to steady his champagne glass before it spilled. He looked up to see America in front of him, grinning at him with the widest, most idiotic, sweetest smile England had ever seen on his face.

America poked England’s cheek, then the bridge of his nose. His smile, impossibly, widened still further and softened even more, even as England sputtered and knocked America’s hand away.

“God, England,” America said with a slight laugh, “you are just . . . wow, too cute sometimes.”

England could feel his cheeks heating furiously, and the knowledge that he was bloody _blushing_ now only made his blush deepen still further. “Don’t be idiotic,” he managed.

America pouted, his eyes playful. “But I’m not being idiotic,” he said, and his grin reappeared. “You are cute. At the very least you’re cute. Pretty, too.” The playfulness in his eyes turned to something else, something softer. “Beautiful.”

England could feel himself sputtering. His cheeks burned. “D-don’t talk such bollocks, America,” he stammered out. His palms felt very damp with cold sweat, and the skin of his face felt as if it might catch fire at any moment.

America just gave him that hugely foolish grin. “It’s our wedding, England,” he said. His grin was spreading all over his face, huge and bright, expanding in the blue vastness of his eyes. “I can if I want to.”

England’s breath caught, and he couldn’t seem to stop staring at America now that that smile had captured his gaze. His heart seemed to have taken up residence somewhere in his throat, but he could hear the pounding of it in his ears. He could feel a dizzy warmth spreading out from his chest all over his body, as if he’d had far more champagne than he had in actuality. America’s cheeks were lightly flushed, as well. The other nation had taken off his white suit coat to reveal his tie and the white linen of his dress shirt, and he was no longer holding the extravagant bouquet of roses he’d sprung on England as a surprise right after the ceremony, as they boarded the train to return to the embassy. England felt even warmer at the thought of it, losing himself in the heady sweetness of the scent of roses as America pushed them suddenly—without warning, just like the git—into his arms from out of bloody nowhere as they boarded the train, accompanied once more by that strange happy sort of dizziness that kept sweeping over him, as if it would lift him off his feet if he let it. America looked incredible in his formal suit, entirely in white, as was England’s, the color of it making the golden sheen of his hair, that unruly lock still sticking up defiantly, the blue brilliance of his eyes, the warm tone of his lightly tanned skin, only stand out all the more. He was bloody gorgeous, spectacles and foolishly gigantic smile and all, and England swallowed thickly at the thought that America had chosen him, this one rather small, rather contrary island, of all nations, not merely to shag, or even to love, both of which were quite hard enough for him to believe, but to marry, to promise a forever to, to have and to hold and—his breath strangled in his throat, and he swallowed once more against it. “Where did you take yourself off to, anyway?” he demanded.

America’s hand shifted, his thumb skimming over England’s cheek to cup his jaw. “Just had to put all those flowers someplace they’d stay nice and stuff,” he said.

“I still can’t believe you actually did that,” England muttered, shaking his head a bit, but without shifting his eyes from America, who laughed and looked down a bit sheepishly, still grinning.

“Hey,” he said in what England had come to think of as his ‘hero tone,’ “only the best on our wedding day!” The incredibly foolish smile slid over his face once more at the words—it was as if he couldn’t seem to keep from grinning for more than a second or two.

England could understand the impulse.

“It’s gotta be a day to remember,” America continued, “only one we get, right?”

“I suppose that’s true,” England allowed. And again, his throat tightened and he couldn’t entirely breathe through it as he stared at America. America, right there before him, resplendent in white, America, land of the free, America—he swallowed but couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“Gonna be the best day ever,” America said. “Well, yet—lots more awesome days to come. After all, we’ve never been married yet, so of course it’s the best day so far!”

“You’re babbling,” England said, rather softly. He felt a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his own mouth, and America’s smile only widened in response.

“You think I care?” he said, “Today?”

The first strains of music began, and England had to force himself not to give another start—America’s reappearance had wiped the matter of the dancing entirely from his mind—

And he didn’t have much of a chance for further thought, for America immediately seized his hand and tugged him forward, quickly snagging the champagne glass out of England’s hand and setting it on the nearby table even as he pulled England rapidly away from it, nearly off his feet.

“Wh-what do you think you’re—” he managed to sputter as he was yanked forward.

But America just stopped, and smiled, and then his hand, broad and rough with familiar calluses, so very familiar by this time, was curving easily around England’s, and then he looked directly into England’s eyes, gave another brilliant grin and said, “England—may I have this dance?”

For a moment England’s breath stopped in his throat, his eyes focusing on his own old heavy gold ring on America’s finger until he could see nothing but that, but his ring and America’s hand, but then he was breathing again, and his words even came out somewhat evenly when he cleared his throat—nervously, why the devil did he sound so nervous—and replied, “It would be my very great honor.” And if his voice had perhaps gone a little hoarse near the end of that sentence . . . well, surely America wouldn’t blame him for that.

America’s grin could probably have been tapped into and used to power the chandelier in the center of the room’s high ceiling. And then England was in his arms, America’s arm gently firm around his waist, beneath England’s suit jacket so that his hand rested warm on the fabric of England’s waistcoat. England lifted his arm to lay it on the back of America’s shoulders, pressing his hand flat to feel the linen cool and stiffly soft beneath his palm, overlaying the radiating warmth and fine flexing muscles of America’s shoulders and spine. His other hand was held firmly, soundly, in America’s, and then they were beginning to move as America shuffled backward just a bit, tugging England with him more fully onto the dance floor.

America bit his lip and looked downward for a moment, at his feet, and in a moment, England placed the one-two-three beat of the slow song. A waltz—and in that moment he remembered taking a younger colony’s hand in the days when America had only just grown taller than he, his own words, “here, now, America, it goes like this, do you see? Three counts—”

A waltz . . . something of the sudden wash of emotion must have shown in his eyes, because America grinned almost shyly at England, ducking his head a bit. “Wedding waltz, right?” he said. “It’s tradition.”

“So it is,” England said in response, slowly, wonderingly, as his feet slid easily into the count out of habit. So many years of wedding dances he had watched, happy for his people, never expecting it to be his turn, his day, never expecting America in his arms, smiling at him with shyness and love in his eyes—America’s hand shifted to curl around England’s wrist, palm over the back of his hand, and he stroked the heel of England’s hand lightly with his thumb.

England closed his eyes and felt as if he were flying for a moment, America’s arms steady and warm and setting him free as they moved together. When he opened his eyes, his lashes felt heavy and damp. Perhaps America wouldn’t notice—but when he looked up at him, America’s normally burnished gold lashes were dark and glistening as well. He smiled tremblingly at England. “You remember teaching me how to do this?” he asked, even as he swung England expertly through a turn.

“Yes,” England said, the word sticking in his throat for a moment before he could manage to tear it free. “Quite well, in fact—you never could manage to keep your feet on the second step.” He gave America a hesitant smile in return.

America laughed a bit. “That’s true,” he said. “It just seemed too quick to me, and it kept messing me up. I think I’ve got it now,” he added, and swept England through a series of turns, complete with fancy footwork that left England rather breathless. He looked up at America, half-laughing himself, and America’s eyes were sparkling. England could feel America’s heart pounding against his own chest, just above his own. Two hearts beating in tandem, he thought, and even he knew he was being soppy and ridiculous, as they weren’t in the least, but he didn’t care. He simply leaned forward to rest his cheek against America’s, pressing their cheeks together, and he could feel the warmth and the smoothness of America’s skin. He could smell that America was wearing more expensive cologne than normal, something with wood notes, could feel the rapid thrumming of America’s heart in his neck, the warm hollow where his jaw met his ear. His hand shifted nearly of its own accord to curl over America’s shoulder, and he breathed in, deeply, smelling that cologne, the depth and breadth and height of the scent that was simply America beneath it.

It had never been this simple, this easy, dancing with America before, and he wasn’t certain why or how it had become so. Before when they had danced—a rare occasion, at best—it had been clumsy, awkward, with more stops and starts than fluid movements, except for once, in a moment of pure, free victory after the war ended, when America had dragged England into an impromptu swing dance—but now, somehow, it was simple, easy, to follow the movements of America’s body, one-two-three-one-two-three, the shifts of his feet, until England wasn’t sure which of them led. America pressed his face into England’s hair so tightly, his breathing heavy and emotion-laden, and England traced the working muscle of America’s shoulder with his hand. They were so close, chests pressed up against one another, their hands clasped, and America turned his arm and cradled England’s hand and arm against his shoulder as they made another turn. It felt like flying, except that England’s stomach wasn’t a bit sick. Not sick in the least. Rather weightless and dizzy and warm, instead. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

A few more turns, and the music stopped. England stood still and breathed in America for a long moment more before he reluctantly dropped his hand from America’s shoulder, and began to step back.

America’s hand at his back stopped him, drawing him closer rather than letting him step away. He brought their clasped hands up to his mouth and kissed them, kissed each of England’s knuckles in turn, running his lips reverently over the gold band of England’s ring, then kissed the old, heavy ring on his own finger, his eyes shyly peering into England’s over their clasped hands. He lowered his lashes a bit and kissed the knuckle of England’s thumb softly.

England’s breath caught. His eyes stung, and then America was loosening his grasp on his hand, sliding his palm back to cup it around the nape of England’s neck, and he looked into England’s eyes and smiled.

England leaned forward at the same time America did, sliding his now-free hand up to curl around America’s neck in turn.  Their lips met, soft and warm, and the kiss tasted of champagne and the slightest hint of frosting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta candesceres! Written for haro.


End file.
